RSVP
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: It's an invitation to disaster.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+, if that

Author's Note: This story appeared a year ago in _Pastiche a Trois_, the first volume of fanfic to raise funds for STAR for Brian Keith. Many thanks to those who donated to that fund. This story's dedicated to you all.

_**R. S. V. P.**_

By L. M. Lewis

McCormick had left the mail on the kitchen table that Friday afternoon, obviously in a hurry, because it was unsorted. _Must have a hot date. _Hardcastle did his own sorting, but the fifth one down, slightly over-sized, and hand-addressed to 'Mr. Mark McCormick', stopped him in mid shuffle.

The return address was in Anaheim.

He put that one carefully to the side and resisted the urge to get up and wash his hands after he'd set it down. Hell, maybe the kid knew a whole slew of people over in Anaheim, though he, himself, could only think of one.

_It's probably just a birthday card or something. _

But it was nearly the end of October, a little late to be thinking of birthday greetings, though he didn't think of Melinda Marshall as the particularly efficient sort—more like the person the belated birthday section of the card rack was invented for. He pushed the thing a little further away with the tip of one finger.

It'd been more than a year and a half since their last encounter with the woman who had been the prime witness at McCormick's trial. The last time around, _she'd_ been the one in trouble, and the judge had had a personal encounter with a woman whose view of reality was slightly skewed.

_Slightly? She almost landed __you__ in the lock-up._

Hardcastle suppressed a shiver. It wasn't that he had never believed McCormick's explanation of how he'd run afoul of his ex-girlfriend; it was just that seeing it play out in reality was so much more effective. Though he couldn't honestly argue that there was one ounce of _conscious_ ill intent about the woman. Saying that would have been like calling an iceberg malicious. She was more a force of nature, a sweetly-smiling juggernaut of indiscriminant destruction.

And now she had sent McCormick a letter.

It could accidentally fall on the floor. Preferably _behind_ something. He pondered that for a few moments, prudence wrestling with elements of his conscience. Personal integrity won, though it was the best two falls out of three. What harm could it do? Here was Mark, all settled, more than half-way through law school, not so much as a speeding ticket in nearly three months. He could handle it.

Hardcastle nodded once sharply to himself and nudged the envelope just a little further away.

00000

On Saturday morning he found McCormick in the kitchen, looking pensive, but not panicked, dressed in something sloppy enough for car work or chores, over which he was still wearing an even rattier robe. The younger man's portion of the mail was no longer in sight. He was nursing a coffee mug.

"Late night?" the judge asked casually.

"Early morning," Mark said, barely lifting his eyes enough to take the other man in.

"Found your mail?" Hardcastle asked, a little less casually.

One nod.

"Anything interesting?" And then, to cover that, "Got next semester's tuition bill yet?" That was a pretty shallow excuse; it wasn't due for another month at least.

Mark focused a little more, and there was a hint of a frown of disbelief. "You sorted it, didn't you?"

"Well . . ."

He was pulling the envelope out of his robe pocket. "I haven't opened it yet, if that's what you were wondering. I didn't think I could face anything from her without a cup of coffee first." He tossed it on the table, where it lay, face up, looking slightly rumpled at the corners, as though it had been stuffed into his pocket with more than necessary force.

"Looks like a birthday card," Hardcastle offered cheerfully.

"Maybe, but Melinda couldn't even remember my birthday when we were sharing a bathroom," Mark said glumly. "Only a month late. You think she got a DayMinder or something?" He pushed the envelope a little further across the table with one finger.

"Well, I think you're being kinda paranoid about this," Hardcastle harrumphed, sliding it back toward the younger man. "You should just open it. Get it over with."

Mark frowned, then reached for it, almost impulsively. "You're right. What the hell, it's been two years since the last time she tried to destroy my life—"

"A year and a half," Hardcastle corrected cautiously.

"Right." Mark slid his finger under the flap and ripped, then winced and pulled it back sharply. "Damn."

"What?'

"Nothing, a paper cut." He inspected it briefly and then reached into the envelope and drew out something folded, heavy cardstock, embossed. His eyes widened a little in what was apparently disbelief. Then he said '_damn_' again, softer, but no less intense. He passed it over without opening it further.

"Damn," Hardcastle seconded, staring down at the wedding invitation in shocked disbelief. It took him a moment to progress to opening it. His eyes passed quickly over the contents and he looked up saying, "Know anybody named Wilson G. Belding?"

"No," Mark shook his head after a moment's thought, and then added, "but he has my deepest sympathies."

The judge frowned at him. "Come on, maybe they're really in love. You never know." Then he looked down again. "You going, or what?"

Mark took a slow swig from near the bottom of his mug and asked, very nonchalantly, "When is it?"

"Ah," Hardcastle glanced down, "December 19th. Looks like they're having it at a hotel, reception to follow." It wasn't till he'd finished reading that off that he looked up again and caught the distracted look on the younger man's face.

"You're kidding," Mark said, with a tone that was very flat.

"Huh? No. Here." The judge handed the invitation back. The smaller inserts fluttered to the table as Mark reached for it with clumsy impatience.

McCormick studied it in grim silence then, after a moment, closed it and tossed it onto the table.

"What, you got something else planned?" Hardcastle asked jokingly, with what was supposed to lighten a mood that appeared to be going rapidly downhill.

"December the nineteenth," Mark said. "_1980_," he added. The emphasis was very definite. The judge stared at him a little blankly, nothing registering. "Of course you wouldn't remember." McCormick sighed heavily. "_We_ didn't meet until three months later. December 19th was the day she and I broke up, and I drove off in the Porsche." Mark shook his head. "I got busted eight hours later. Very efficient. Of course I wasn't exactly hiding out. I thought I was driving _my_ car."

"Just a coincidence," Hardcastle said, after a long moment in which he'd been trying to think of something else to say.

"One in 365, heck of a set of odds," Mark looked surprisingly resigned.

"You don't think that—"

"I'd say it was intentional, but I know her memory isn't that good." McCormick frowned. "And, anyway, she's not well-enough organized to be vindictive. Screwing up my life is just some sort of natural, God-given gift for her."

"Well . . ." Hardcastle found himself backing off slowly from something along the lines of 'it's all in the past now', or 'all's well that ends well', knowing that all, indeed, might _not_ end well, if he said something like that, and the fuse, though hidden, could be surprisingly short.

"What difference does it make, anyway?" Mark added quietly, not appearing to have noticed the judge's hesitance. He pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet slowly. He stepped over to the sink, rinsed out the mug and put it in the draining rack, all without displaying any obvious outward emotion.

He said nothing more till he got to the back door, then he tossed off, "Gonna change. Got some errands to run. Be back later."

And Hardcastle didn't have time to think of any more platitudes before the other man was gone.

The judge moved the invitation, which had been left on the kitchen table, to the counter. He assumed McCormick's Saturday 'errands' would include a fairly fast run up the PCH, possibly in excess of posted speeds, and that he'd probably end up at one of the less crowded stretches of shoreline.

And that would most likely be that. On December nineteenth he figured he would find them both something to do—fishing, maybe, or an afternoon at E.J.'s track, if Corlette was in town. That would be arranged without further comment, and 'Yeah, sure,' would be the kid's way of saying everything was back to normal.

Hardcastle would have said seven years was a long time, except that ten years gone could seem like yesterday at times, especially when you were the only one who remembered that there was anything _to_ remember.

00000

The invitation disappeared from the counter sometime late Saturday afternoon, after Mark had returned, looking a little windblown, but otherwise at ease. Neither man said anything further about it. It had almost slipped from Hardcastle's mind by the following Saturday, when he answered the phone and heard Melinda's unmistakable voice.

He kept his greeting civil, though wary. She seemed oblivious to the fact that she'd almost gotten him arrested shortly after the last time he'd seen her. Of course she'd also seemed oblivious to the fact that her testimony had landed McCormick in San Quentin.

"Is Mark there?" There was a little edge to her voice, as though something was on her mind, and she wasn't used to that.

Hardcastle looked out the window. The Coyote was parked out in front of the gatehouse, not that he wasn't prepared to lie in this case.

"Did you need to speak to him?" he asked, a little pointedly.

There was a moment's hesitation before she said, "I was just returning his call."

"Ah . . ." Hardcastle frowned. This was an unexpected turn of events. "He's not _here_. He might be over in the gatehouse. Did you try there?"

"Yeah," there was a slight hedge to that, as though she might have dialed, let it ring once, then decided she wanted a referee. "Do you know what he wanted?"

"Dunno," the judge fumbled, "maybe he wanted to know if you and, ah, Willie were on a gift registry somewhere."

"Oh, you mean he's going to come?"

Hardcastle bit down hard. "Um, not sure about that, you know, school and all."

"But it's a _Saturday_," she pouted. "And I was really hoping he'd come. I want him to meet Wilson."

The judge held that idea up and squinted at it for a moment, and then settled for a very neutral, "Well, you know it's right before exams and all."

"Oh," she sighed, "I _suppose_ . . . Hey, maybe he'd be free some day before the wedding."

The judge was working hard on an excuse that would cover the whole six-week period. He came up dry. McCormick was the go-to guy for lying around Gulls Way, and even he wasn't getting as much practice as he used to. He finally exhaled sharply and said, "Well, I can tell him you called and all that. He's got your number."

"Okay," Melinda said with an air of disappointment, then she added a '_please_' that had just the slightest note of wistful urgency to it.

Hardcastle couldn't help it; it slipped out before he could catch himself. "Everything's all right, isn't it?" He could have bitten his tongue for even opening that particular can of worms. "I mean, with you and this Wilson guy."

To his relief, Melinda chirped out a quick 'yes' and then, "He's just so nice, so thoughtful. I've never known anybody as considerate as him. _Really_." It all sounded very earnest, but did nothing to explain why she needed to share her joy with her former, and apparently less-considerate, boyfriend.

The judge floated the idea of just asking her straight out, then shelved it. He had a sneaking suspicion that Melinda Marshall's mind didn't work exactly the same way as most people's did, that there were parts of it that really didn't know what the other parts were up to, and that she hardly ever worked with a full quorum.

Instead he just reiterated, "Well, I'll be sure to tell him you called."

With that they said their good-byes. Hardcastle set his receiver down and cast a quick look over his shoulder out toward the gatehouse. Melinda's ex-boyfriend was strolling up the drive, looking blessedly unaware that he'd probably be making another over-the-limit drive up the PCH in a little while.

00000

"The hell I did." Mark looked up from the coffee he was pouring. "Call _her_? Why?"

"Yeah, well, I thought it was kinda strange." Hardcastle shrugged. "But that's what she said."

"Listen, Judge, the last time I called her was, I dunno, right after that fiasco with her and the real estate guys, and that was just so I could get some information I needed for the credit company, you know, so I could straighten my records out. And _that_ was a year and a half ago. And she never even returned my call." He put the carafe on the table and sat down heavily.

Both men sat quietly for a moment, both started to speak at almost the same moment, "You don't think—" then paused, then Mark took it up, "No, it couldn't be."

"Why not?" Hardcastle frowned. "She wants to talk to you; you called her last. What's a year and a half?"

Mark ran his fingers through his hair, then held his head in both hands as though it might fall off. "Did she say _why_ she wanted to talk to me?"

"I think she said something about wanting you to meet the love of her life," Hardcastle smiled thinly.

"Nope," Mark shook his head once, "even Melinda can't be that dense. Something's up."

"Do I need to point out that this is not your problem?"

"No." Mark avoided looking at him. Then he added quietly, "Did she sound nervous, scared?"

"Not so's I could tell." Hardcastle looked at the younger man sternly. "Listen, kiddo. She said he's a prince. If that's her way of asking for a background check, it was pretty damn subtle, and if she's not asking for one, and you go and dig something up on this guy, well, what do you think she's gonna think when you bring it to her?"

"I dunno," Mark sighed. "It's just that I was thinking about it, last Saturday . . . maybe a little on and off since then. I mean, she's _Melinda_. What kind of guy in his right mind would marry someone like that?"

"Well, I hope you aren't gonna try to warn _him_ about _her_."

"She's not dangerous . . ." Mark paused for a moment, as if he was considering what he'd just said. "Okay," he conceded, "she _is_ dangerous—but it would be safer to marry her than to just date her."

Hardcastle nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe with a pre-nup."

"And, anyway, it wouldn't hurt to look this guy up, would it?"

"If that's even his real name."

"Hey, if it isn't, then that'll be a red flag right there," Mark said tensely.

"Are you going to call her back?" Hardcastle asked abruptly.

"Well," Mark shrugged, "I suppose I'll have to; gotta find out which bridal registry they're on. Don't want to just get 'em a fondue set."

"You're going to the wedding?" the judge asked dubiously.

"Maybe."

Hardcastle frowned. "This isn't so you can stand up when they ask if anyone has any objections and all that."

"No," Mark replied, and then there was a momentary hesitation followed by a sly smile. "Though it would be kind of satisfying."

00000

No errands involving the Coyote were undertaken that morning, but after retreating back to the gatehouse for a while, Mark returned at lunchtime and announced, "She's stopping by later on."

"With the groom or without?" Hardcastle asked curiously.

"Without, he's out-of-town on business."

He let one eyebrow rise. "Over the weekend? What kind of business is he in?"

"I didn't ask. You didn't want me to sound like I was checking up on him, did you?"

Hardcastle gave this a little thought and then finally asked, "But you are, aren't you?"

"I dunno," Mark shrugged, "maybe. It's kind of a habit, you know. Do it for long enough and you never _aren't_ doing it."

The judge thought about that, too, and then nodded. "But, you ought to be straight on what your motivation is here. Are you worried about Melinda, or just hoping to give her some bad news?"

Hardcastle thought it was to Mark's credit that he didn't answer right away. He just cocked his head and pondered visibly for a few moments. Then he finally said, "I'll let you know when I figure that one out. Either way, if there's bad news, she ought to hear it before the wedding, don't you think?"

He supposed that was true, too.

00000

Melinda arrived unpromptly at nearly five p.m. She still had the Caddie that she'd gotten in her job with the shady real estate company, but it was showing the dings and furrows of outrageous parking. McCormick stood on the front steps and frowned, though he supposed it wasn't any worse than what he'd done to the Coyote on a regular basis.

She climbed out of the vehicle, giving Mark the smile that had set him off-guard in the past. He'd spent a lot of time analyzing it and concluded that it was her own absolute conviction that she was an innocent bystander that made her so disarming. There was no guile to the woman; things just happened around her.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and managed a smile back. "Congratulations."

This got him an elbow in the side from Hardcase, who whispered, "You're supposed to say 'best wishes' to the bride. The other way it sounds like she bagged her limit."

"I said what I _meant_," Mark retorted, sotto voce, but by this time she was nearly to the steps and both men mustered somewhat rigid and wary smiles.

If Melinda had noticed the faux pas, she didn't acknowledge it. Instead, she turned the smile up a couple of watts and said. "I'm just so happy. I knew you'd understand, Mark."

McCormick's expression fell to a little puzzled. "Well, yeah . . . ah, understand?"

She'd mounted the steps. Mark stood his ground; the backward lean was almost imperceptible.

"Oh," she reached out and touched his arm in a gesture that might have indicated sympathy, "that it's all over between us. I guess it was never meant to be."

Mark opened and closed his mouth once. Words utterly failed him.

Melinda patted him gently. "I know it's hard, but it's for the best."

There was a stifled noise from his left. Hardcastle. It was hard to tell if it was a snort or an outright guffaw. Either way, it wasn't subtle and the older man tried to cover it with a hasty gesture toward their left.

"We can go sit round back at the pool, talk about your plans," he said in his best host demeanor. "Got some lemonade."

Mark had fallen back a little—partly to let Melinda precede and partly to get some space between him and her. He let Hardcastle take over.

It really wasn't necessary. Melinda had taken the conversation by the horns and was bubbling on about the wedding plans. Between the front steps and the pool they got a quick run down on color schemes and floral choices.

"Wilson really left me in charge of all that. He's so accommodating." She paused for breath. Then she started up again with just a little less froth. "But it's really just me and him. You know, Mark, I don't have much family."

McCormick hadn't said anything up to that point. He nodded once.

"That's why it was so important to me, that you be there." There was that slight note of wistful again, Hardcastle thought.

McCormick had pulled out a chair for her. It was an oddly formal gesture but Melinda seemed comfortable with it. He moved around to the opposite side of the table, leaving the chair in between for the judge.

He'd already taken his own seat before he finally said, very quietly, "I'll be there, Melinda."

She was beaming. "I knew I could count on you, Mark. You'll come, too Judge?" she asked hopefully.

Mark shot him a quick inquisitive look. Hardcastle hadn't mentioned that his own invitation had arrived the Monday after McCormick's.

"Ah . . . yeah," he said, hoping it didn't sound too hesitant. Then he launched himself onto more neutral territory. "And where will you and Wilson be living after the wedding?"

"Oh," Melinda frowned lightly. "Most likely we'll be moving. Wilson's heading up the corporate ladder. That involves relocating. It might even be out of the country."

"And what line is Wilson in?" Mark asked politely. Hardcastle was relieved to see that he wasn't taking out a notebook.

"Ah . . ." Melinda's frown had taken on a little strain, "one of the sales divisions. International. That's how I met him. I was applying for a job in his company."

"Water filters?" Mark asked, with an absolutely straight face.

Melinda looked at him in astonishment. "_Mark_, you didn't investigate him, did you? Oh," then her frown dissipated just a little, "you are _incorrigible_." There was a hint of a smile below the frown. "But it's kind of sweet, you know, in a way."

"It _is _water filters?" Mark looked aghast.

"Well, yeah, you knew that, didn't you? Filters, and um, stuff like that. They have a lot of product lines. 'Lifametrics', that's the name of the company. They've got a motto." She frowned again, biting into her lower lip slightly. "I'll think of it."

Hardcastle could see that Mark was resisting the urge to ask her to spell the company's name out for him. The judge stepped in neatly; there couldn't be that many possible vowel combinations, "Wilson's been with the firm long, has he?"

"Oh, no, just a couple of years I think, but he's already getting a promotion." Her smile had the gleam of possessiveness now. "And he doesn't want me to work. I didn't even finish applying at his company."

McCormick stared that idea down, then asked the next logical question, "Just how long _have_ you two known each other?"

Not so long that Melinda had to resort to counting on her fingers. Her answer was quick and unselfconscious. "Two months. It was love at first sight, just like in the movies."

Hardcastle thought maybe he'd seen a few of those, mostly directed by Alfred Hitchcock.

Mark's stare hadn't wavered. He appeared to be doing some serious calculating of his own. "Melinda . . ." He didn't get any further than that. She sat there, looking expectant, though two months was too short for even _that_ excuse for haste. He finally appeared to bite down hard on whatever he'd intended to say. The rest came out as, "How 'bout some of that lemonade?"

Melinda's expression faded to mild befuddlement. "That sounds nice," she smiled, "but then I really have to be going. I've got an appointment at the bridal shop."

"They stay open this late on Saturdays?" Hardcastle asked gently.

"Oh," Melinda looked down hastily at a watch that was apparently mostly for decoration. "Drat. I must've lost track of time." She sighed. "It's so nice to reminisce about things; isn't it, Mark?"

Utter and profound silence from across the table.

This stymied Melinda for only a second or two, then she smiled again. "But I guess I'd better take a pass on the lemonade." She was standing. "And I would like to introduce you to Wilson, when he gets back."

"That sounds fine." Hardcastle had taken the reins again. He was standing, too.

Mark finally found his feet, the other two already strolling around the side of the house to the drive in front. Melinda paused there as he caught up, then she turned and gave him a quick, impulsive hug. Hardcastle couldn't tell if he'd flinched.

And then she was in the Caddie, double starting it, and pulling away, with a quick wave out the window and a near-miss of the flowerbed alongside the drive.

The two men stood there.

"What just happened?" Mark finally asked, after a moment of silence.

"Damned if I know."

Silence again.

"You think they spell it 'Life-a' or 'Lifa'?"

"Doesn't matter," Hardcastle shook his head, "I'll run 'em both."

00000

"Legit," the judge announced from the den on Monday afternoon, as McCormick returned from class. "They don't exactly sell water filters," he added, as Mark made a suspicious face and lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk. "It's more like water purification systems. They've got a whole 'do well by doing good' division that's involved with engineering small scale systems for Third World countries. Government grants and everything."

"That could be a scam."

"They've been doing it for thirty years now. They've got a lot of high profile folks as honorary members of the board. If it's a scam, it's being done with a lot of style."

"How 'bout Wilson?"

"Hey, you were only gone for three hours," the judge groused. "Gimme a little time."

Mark smiled.

"Anyway," Hardcastle continued, "how deep do we want to dig?"

The smile disappeared, replaced by a set look and a heavy sigh. "I dunno. Did any of what she said sound even remotely likely to you?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Maybe it's weird, but love's that way sometimes."

"I'll grant you," Mark conceded, "Melinda has this idiocy aura—it's thick enough to cut with a knife and it extends out about twelve feet around her. You don't want to try and have an argument while you're standing in the same room with her. But _still_, an executive-type comes and sweeps her off her feet, and vise versa; the date's set and the flowers are ordered all after only two months. What's wrong with that picture?"

"Everything's not necessarily a conspiracy."

"If it barks like a dog—"

"Okay, but if he turns out to be a serial killer, who's gonna break the news to her?"

"She won't believe _me_," Mark said glumly.

"Me neither." There was a pause, and then Hardcastle's equally grim look suddenly brightened. "Hey, we could get Frank to do it."

00000

"An insurance policy," Hardcastle said, on Tuesday afternoon as he got off the phone in the kitchen. "He took one out on her a couple weeks ago."

"How'd you find that out?" Mark looked up from arranging the pork chops.

"I . . . know people." The judge looked a little shifty. "It's for a half million."

Mark gave that a low whistle.

"Could still be love," Hardcastle chastened.

"In what alternate universe?"

"All right, it looks a little hinky."

"But how are we gonna explain to her how we know this?" Mark looked pensively down at the chops. "Or even Frank, for that matter."

"We'll just have to tell her, ourselves, flat out. Beats feeling guilty later on."

"I suppose." McCormick looked slightly unconvinced.

00000

Hardcastle had decided it was news best given in person and that it probably wouldn't do any good to put it off. It took a little persuading, though, to get Melinda to come for dinner. She said she'd have to break an appointment with the caterer.

The pork chops got an extra twenty minutes with the oven turned down, and then spent a half-hour more on the counter, swaddled in aluminum foil and slowly growing tepid. Mark ate one out of sheer frustration.

Melinda showed up at about half-past seven, looking mildly put out. "It took me three weeks just to get the appointment. Chez Henri does the best nouvelle cuisine catering in Southern California; normally there's a nine-month waiting list." She looked down with some distain at the platter of pork chops.

"Sit down, Melinda," the judge pointed. She stood his harsh gaze for a moment, then sat slowly, looking slightly deflated.

"Listen," he hadn't worked on any preamble, "we've got some kinda disturbing news for you. It's about Wilson."

The woman's eyes had gone slightly round. "He's okay?"

"Melinda, _listen_. We haven't even met the guy," Hardcastle said with carefully controlled exasperation. "This is about something he's _done_."

She shot a quick and pointed glance at McCormick, who was standing back a little, and froze in mid-fidget. "Mark?" she said in a tone that was edging on anger.

"Melinda, listen to him; he's trying to tell you something important."

Hardcastle gave that a sharp nod. "Your fiancé did something that's pretty suspicious." There was something in the way he'd said it that trapped the woman's gaze for a moment.

"What?" she finally asked in a small, but still defiant voice.

"He's taken out a life insurance policy on you," Mark interjected. "It's for a half million dollars. He's the beneficiary."

The anger in her expression seemed to flutter away with a light laugh. "Oh, _that_." She waved away their concerns with quick little movements of both hands and then laughed again. "Don't be silly. I knew all about _that_."

Hardcastle looked surprised, Mark somehow not so much so.

"He explained it all to me. And he took one out on himself, too, with me as the beneficiary."

Mark shot Hardcastle a glance and got a shrug in return.

"He said," Melinda paused for a moment, as though the exact words were escaping her. "Oh, I'm not sure exactly, but it's part of our commitment. He's really into that on a lot of levels." She cast a look at McCormick as though he could take some lessons in that department.

"That's a lot of, ah, _commitment_, for two people who only just met two months ago," Hardcastle said dryly.

Melinda went right on looking at Mark, as though he'd been the one speaking. "I don't expect you'd understand something like that. Wilson is someone who's in for the long haul."

"Yeah, I only gave you the best two years of my life," Mark said tersely. The words had a sharp tang to them. Melinda blinked once as though she was trying to figure them out.

Then she dismissed it all with a cool, "Oh, so _that's_ it." She was standing. "I thought you could be _mature_ about this—my having moved on." She tossed her head once, as if to rid herself of something annoying, perhaps it was a thought. "Okay," she said very calmly, "I understand. Some people have to live in the past."

Hardcastle realized he'd been standing there for a full moment longer than he ought to have, mesmerized. At this, though, he reached out and snagged Melinda's arm, firmly yanking her back out of the reach of someone who quite rightfully looked like he might be on the verge of losing it.

But McCormick didn't even twitch. He was still in the same spot when the judge returned from showing Ms. Marshall to the door. He was still silent.

"Ah . . ." Hardcastle hemmed, not sure what to say. 'Sorry' didn't quite seem to cover it.

"S'okay," Mark said, with surprising quietude. "She does that when she's scared. Took me a while to figure it out." He let out a breath and his shoulders came down a bit. "I suppose the wedding invitation is off . . . for me at least." His smile was quick and rueful, then gone. "I just hope we don't have to attend her funeral."

00000

Wednesday morning came and went with no further comment from McCormick. The judge had lunch with Frank between spending the latter half of the morning visiting Rosie in the hall of records, and the first part of the afternoon on the phone. When McCormick returned home from class, Hardcastle was sitting at his desk in the den, occasionally drumming his fingers.

Mark stood there in the doorway of the room with a considering expression. "This isn't going to be good news, huh?" he finally said, as he sidled in and draped himself in a chair wearily.

"Well," Hardcastle said, "that depends."

"There's something wrong with her," Mark said suddenly. "You understand that, don't you? She's missing some little widget that makes people have the sense to come in out of the rain. And, anyway, when this Wilson guy finally does come at her, she's gonna somehow figure it to be my fault. You wait and see."

"Okay," the judge grumped, "you done feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Yeah," Mark groused right back at him. "Whatcha got?"

"This and that." Hardcastle opened the file that he had on the desk in front of him and pushed it across to the younger man. "This isn't Wilson's first marriage."

"Five'll get you ten she already knows he's a widower. He _was_ 'widowed', right? Not divorced?"

"Twice." Hardcastle nodded. "Both the previous Mrs. Beldings died with their insurance policies fully paid up. The first one was ten years ago, and it all looks pretty kosher. I'll bet that one just happened, but it might have been what put the idea into his head.

"Wife number two passed about five years ago. She was older than him by a couple of years, and had been treated for a heart condition—some kind of irregular heart beat. Very sad, they'd only been married nine months. No big waves at the insurance company, though. Mrs. Belding the second had already had the policy, couldn't have gotten a new one with her medical problems, only the beneficiary had been changed at the time of the wedding."

Mark was staring down at the file with a look of concern. "So now he's cutting out the middle man, handling the whole thing himself—find a wife, get a policy, no pre-existing conditions." He looked up sharply. "Damn efficient. That's getting kind of risky for him, isn't it?"

"Well, that's what makes me think he must be having some cash flow problems—that and the fact that this one is five times what the last one was for. That's just plain greedy, bound to attract a little attention, even with the his-and-hers policies."

"You know there's always a chance that Melinda will run him over backing the Caddie out of the garage on their wedding day—not intentionally, of course."

Hardcastle frowned. "I'm trying to be serious here."

"So am I."

The judge harrumphed. "_Anyway_, what Melinda said, about him getting a promotion, turns out he's been running that 'Third World Safe Drinking Water Division' for almost two years now. Looks like a loss leader for the company. They mostly want some nice pictures for the annual stockholder's report and Wilson gets 'em plenty of those.

"Thing is, when your section of the company is expected to lose money, what the hell difference does it make, exactly how _much_ you lose? I mean, what's a few thousand here or there? Especially when it all counts for tax breaks and federal grant money."

"Okay, so he's got this scam going on the side," Mark frowned. "So, what's that got to do with Melinda?"

"Well, the scam only works as long as he's in that division. Now along comes the 'promotion'. He's got to move on, to some part of the company where they expect the beans to add up evenly. Someone else is gonna get his old office, and maybe his old books, and either he was going to try and patch things up, or he wants to make a clean kill with enough cash to move to some country with no extradition treaties.

"Meanwhile he needs to put a push on the marriage. Wouldn't look so good if he had to collect on the policy before she even makes it to the altar."

Mark swallowed once, hard. "It's real, huh?" he said quietly. "He's going to kill her."

"Not if we put in a word to Lifametrics and Amalgamated Mutual Life and Trust. Once they yank the rug out from under this guy, he won't have any reason to kill her."

"Or marry her."

"Yeah, well, I think the odds on that one making it to the fifty-year mark were way down off the charts."

"Somebody is going to have to tell her."

"Maybe by phone," Hardcastle suggested.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Coward."

"You bet. There's brave, and then there's stupid."

"Okay, well, she already hates my guts, so, what the hell." McCormick got to his feet slowly.

"You're going over there?" the judge asked with some alarm in his tone.

"Nah, home field advantage. I'll invite her back here. Ah, maybe tomorrow," he had a sudden look of guilty reluctance. "That okay? You don't think Wilson will make any moves tonight, do you?"

"No reason to think so . . . But what makes you think she'll come?" Hardcastle asked dubiously.

"She hears what she wants to hear. When I tell her I need to talk to her, she'll think I want to apologize." He studied the floor in front of his feet for a moment, then lifted his head and added, "She really did want me at that wedding, Judge. I did some calling around of my own. She doesn't have anyone. She kinda burns through people."

Hardcastle gave him a nod and then watched him turn and leave the room.

00000

The judge hadn't been privy to the phone call, but on Thursday, after dinner, Mark showed all the signs of nervous anticipation. He looked like a guy more in need of a stiff drink than a lemonade.

Hardcastle steered the conversation in the right direction. "Amalgamated Mutual got the word. I sent it through official channels. They've already started looking into it, but it might take a couple days; neither of the other two policies was with them, of course."

"Makes sense. And Lifametrics?"

"Well, that was a little tricky, didn't want them to get a head start on the insurance company—mighta pushed Wilson into doing something rash if we upped the pressure before he realized the policy was under investigation."

Mark nodded once.

"But it turns out I'd already shook something loose, just with the few phone calls I'd made the day before. The guys from accounting are already sniffing around; one of them called me to see who my sources were."

"Damn," Mark put the heel of his hand to his forehead, "I think she's coming tonight. She _said_ she would. Maybe I should go over there."

"Don't worry. I sicced Frank on him. Just a friendly visit—proactive policing. Wilson knows they've got their eye on him now. He may still try to run, but there'd be no point in doing anything stupid."

Mark nodded again but looked worried.

There was a brief trace of headlights across the window of the den. Mark glanced down at his watch and then up again, standing to get a look at the car.

"She must know something's up," he said tightly. "She's only fifteen minutes late."

"Might make it easier, if she's already got a clue."

"I doubt it." Mark shook his head and headed for the door. He glanced back over his shoulder. "You don't have to stick around for this, though there's a good chance you'll have to go all the way down to the beach to miss it."

Hardcastle shrugged once. "Might be easier with a referee."

Mark looked doubtful again, then he smiled thinly. "You're already wearing the home team jersey and she knows it. Go . . . somewhere else. Give us a half hour, at least."

Feeling slightly cowardly, Hardcastle lumbered to his feet, then slipped past Mark and into the hallway, though he went no further than the kitchen.

00000

Mark waited until he'd heard the footsteps retreating down the hallway and then reached for the doorknob, still before she'd had a chance to knock. Melinda had been hesitating, lingering at the foot of the steps, her expression more confused than angry.

At the sight of him in the doorway, though, her face hardened a little.

"Mark?"

He said nothing, but gestured her in. She followed with some apparent reluctance.

"I'm glad you could make it," he finally said, as he got her into the den and sitting down. He briefly considered staying on his feet and out of reach, but realized this had to be done face to face, and at an eye level. Anything else would be an affront.

But he didn't get a chance to start before her heard her say, in a cold tone that he hadn't heard in nearly seven years, "What did you _do_, Mark?"

He actually thought he might prefer anger. He didn't risk any sort of expression; he said it flatly, "Just a little background check."

"You snooped around," she corrected in harsh disbelief. "You were snooping around about my _husband._"

"You're not married _yet_, Melinda." He'd tossed it back in a moment of overdue exasperation, and immediately realized it had been a tactical error.

The look on her face wasn't anger. Anger would definitely have been preferable. The problem with Melinda, he suddenly realized, was that there was no way over those bastions of absolute, obstinate _cluelessness_, short of crushing them into the ground. Now her defenses were on the verge of collapse. She must have heard more than rumors, he figured. She _knew_.

"Melinda—"

He got no further. She'd drawn herself up in the chair, and was looking at him narrowly. "You always hated me. I know."

"Well—"

"You walked out on me, took the car." She drew in a breath. "_Everybody_ leaves." She shook her head as if she had just made an important discovery. "But now you want to destroy this, too."

"Wait a sec, Melinda." He dropped into a chair and leaned forward a little. "The guy was an embezzler. _And_ he'd collected insurance money on two previous wives."

"He was _mine_." Her expression was not quite as crushed as he'd thought; she was gathering momentum again. "He _loved _me. I was happy."

"He would've murdered you." It was hard, and flat, and as cold as he could make it.

That was met with a moment of silence. And then she said, in a voice suddenly smaller, "We were going to have calla lilies. It was going to be perfect."

There was nothing to say to that.

And then she shook her head once, a very small movement. "They all leave." And then, "I'm thirty-four."

"There's someone," he said vaguely, wishing it didn't sound so much like a lie.

"There was Wilson," she sniffed, drawing herself together again.

"No, there wasn't." He'd said it quietly this time. She couldn't help but hear.

She gave him a long, silent look, and then said, equally quietly. "Maybe . . . maybe I didn't care."

He saw all of the bastion, crumbled to the ground and, over on the other side, Melinda, eternally unfathomable, and absolutely vulnerable. He leaned back a little. Angry was definitely better. It was _safer_, for one thing.

Then a small thought occurred to him. It might have been something along the lines of _better him than me_, but it was quickly draped in the more decent logic of _might be best for all parties concerned._

"But Wilson didn't walk out on you."

He watched her eyes lift, and saw the small dawn of hope. He strangled the infant Guilt, right there in the cradle of Remorse, and dredged up a smile of gentle encouragement. After all, what harm could it do? Wilson would spend the next two to four in some place like Clarkville. Heck, they had conjugal visits there and everything. A little Melinda once in a while would be . . . _okay._

And nobody would ever sell the guy a life insurance policy again, that much was certain.

Melinda had a smile of her own now, very nearly beatific in a plaster saint sort of way. "No, he didn't . . . I think he's just horribly misunderstood." She shook her head at the injustice of it all.

Mark hoped the embezzlement charges were solid; the insurance fraud thing had just lost its best witness.

She gave him a look of long-suffering self-righteousness. "We don't need the flowers and the caterer." She looked almost surprised to hear herself say it.

And Mark knew, no matter what other charges did or didn't stick, Wilson had Melinda.

00000

He'd given them the requested half-hour and he thought that was plenty. He'd heard a few raised, but muffled voices early on, but, for the last few minutes, there had been only ominous silence.

But when he poked his head into the hallway, it was only to see McCormick turning back from latching the front door.

"She's gone already?" Hardcastle stepped into the den, following the other man, relieved to find no pile of sodden hankies, no damaged furniture, no black eyes.

"Yup, gone." Mark let himself down into a chair. "And you were right; it _was_ true love," he added with a small smile. "She wasn't just it in it for the calla lilies." His smile broadened into a grin. "Boy, is Wilson in for a shock."


End file.
